


A Scarlet Dawn

by Zelos



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Ethical Dilemmas, Gen, Morality, Shitty choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:43:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelos/pseuds/Zelos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We don't think of you as the villain,” Fury finally said, every word slow.</p><p>His answering smile wasn't kind in the least.  “Well then, sir, what <i>do</i> you think of me as?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Scarlet Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Also for [this prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/11264.html?thread=27280640#t27280640), which wanted a sketch on the pilot(s) that fired the nuke on Manhattan. This is for the pilot who was shot down by Fury (and thus did not launch a nuke at Manhattan).
> 
> This is the companion piece/sequel to [Apache Sunset.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/846263)

Marcus ghosted for days.

Men and women skittered out of the way as he approached, gazes flat and voices muted. Not because they were afraid he would overhear, but like he wasn't even there. These were people he worked with, lived with. Played poker and had shooting competitions and screaming fights with. Now, it's as if he was, well...

“I'm not fucking _dead!_ ” But it was the mug he'd thrown clear across the room that'd gotten their attention, and not him. Still, in the wake of the resounding crash they'd looked him in the eye – _yes, you're not dead, move along._

He's had bullet wounds that hurt less.

The only ones who'd acknowledge him were the ones who had to – the medical staff, who'd set his leg after his bad landing, wrapped it in plaster and sent him on his way, with not one extra word spoken to him or one glance more than necessary. He hobbled through the hallways alone, a silent ghost.

Fury hadn't even called him for debriefing. It was like he died along with Erik.

 

She was hurrying along the too-narrow corridor, papers in one hand and a mug in the other; he'd taken up most of the room between his greater bulk and his crutches. She'd hugged the wall as she walked, eyes on her coffee and mind on her work...

...and he stuck out one crutch in front of her ankle and she went flying with a shriek. The mug shattered against the wall, spraying coffee over the fluttering papers; she yelped and scrambled to gather them...and stopped short at the crutch a scant three inches from her face.

“What the _fuck_ , Blake?!”

He would never admit to the electrifying relief at someone simply saying his name. “So you do remember me.”

“Jesus Christ, I've been shuffling your goddamned paperwork for three years, of course I know your fucking name.” If looks could kill, he'd be dead six times over. “If your little stunt was – ”

“ _Shut up!_ ” he roared, and she did, a flicker of fear in her face.

“Shut up,” he said again, into the trembling silence. Softer this time. He removed the point of the crutch from her face. “You think I'm playing games, Jen? The entire goddamned carrier's freezing me out. Fury hasn't called me to dress me down, Hill hasn't ripped me a new one, med doesn't care if my leg falls off. I ain't the one who shot this bird down, but even Barton doesn't get this shit.” Jen wasn't the rest of the crew, wasn't even an agent – she was just a paper-pusher in a cubicle three floors down, but one started where they must. “I'm not _dead_ , much as everyone wants to pretend otherwise.”

“You _should have_ died,” Jen shot back with remarkable defiance from her position on the floor. “Least Filan had the decency to off himself.”

He opened his mouth to yell, thought better of it, counted fifteen breaths before he gritted out, “stop treating me like I'm the enemy.”

She clambered off the floor to stare at him, dark eyes blazing. She probably would've known better, he knew, if the entire goddamned boat hadn't been thinking the same. “Jesus Christ, Blake – you would've _killed_ them.”

“I was following _orders!_ ” He slammed one crutch against the metal wall; it clanged.

“The wrong ones.” Hill's voice was cool behind them both; the pair swung around to face Fury and Hill, and everyone froze to stone.

 

They squared off in the corridor, Hill and Fury and he; Jen scooped up her papers for a wise retreat. The three scarcely noticed; Hill's words hung in the air.

A long, measuring silence, then: “I didn't know that,” Marcus said finally, voice low.

Hill raised her eyebrows. “No?”

“No, and I still don't,” he shot back.

Hill's voice was equal parts incredulous, mocking, and angry – and entirely unprofessional. Manhattan had been rough on them all. “Nuking the entirety of downtown Manhattan didn't strike you as an order to be ignored?”

“Like how you bitch about Stark ignoring _your_ stupid-ass orders?” That was – mostly – directed at Fury. “ _Sir?_ ”

To his credit, Fury did not respond. Hill's eyes narrowed, her voice low and dangerous. “If you think – ”

“I _do_ fucking think,” he grated out. “Stark won it for us all, fucking hooray, but you tell me how it would've ended if Erik hadn't fired that shot. Go on. Six of them against an army.” A hard, emphatic thump of crutch against floor. “ _I'm listening._ ”

“If Stark hadn't – ”

“Then we'd be _dead_ ,” Marcus cut in. Did she think it'd been _easy_ , making that call? “Same as if Erik never fired his nuke. All's well that ends well, Deputy Director, but I'll not be your scapegoat.”

Fury finally spoke. “What _do_ you want then, Blake? Acknowledgement as a hero?”

“No, sir.” That was bitter and soft. “Just not branded as the villain.”

 

He'd hobbled to the door before Fury's voice rang out behind him: “Blake!”

Marcus stopped. Turned. Stared into Fury's good eye.

Another long, measuring silence.

“We don't think of you as the villain,” Fury finally said, every word slow.

His answering smile wasn't kind in the least. “Well then, sir, what _do_ you think of me as?”

Fury did not answer. Marcus didn't really expect him to.

He pushed through the door. This time, Fury let him go.

 

They didn't really know what to do with him. He wasn't injured enough to be ordered to the medical bay (and it wasn't like the medical staff were any happier to see him). He hadn't done anything egregious enough to be ordered off the ship, but he was certainly – for the moment, if not permanently – off duty, from the leg if nothing else. No one with any standing had made up a decent enough excuse to quarantine him, so he has as much free run of the carrier as he ever did. The one who should have died, ghosting eerily through the quiet.

He headed to the bridge – public, open, somewhere between _fuck you_ and _hurrah_. The other agents studiously ignored him, which suited him just fine.

He stopped at the paned windows, staring at the ravaged Manhattan a million feet below – still standing, battered and tall, in the dawn of a new day. The rising sun shaded red and gold, dropping dark shadows in the buildings' wakes.

He thought of a sleek black fighter flying an intercept course, and a red-and-gold blur with a missile on his back.

Footsteps sounded behind him, paused. He turned. Maria Hill stared back, her features schooled to a blandness that would have done Coulson proud.

Marcus flashed her a rictus grin meant to cut, gesturing expansively at the skyline. “Beautiful, isn't it?”

A barely-perceptible crack in the mask: Hill's eyes darkened briefly before she mastered her features. Her gaze followed his all the way down, scanning the wrecks, before finally stopping on the defiant A still remaining on Stark Tower.

“Yes,” she said simply.


End file.
